Jaine Austen 4 - Shoes to Die For (14 page)

“From the speed dating people. I was one of the guys you said yes to.”

But I hadn’t said yes to anyone, as those of you paying attention will surely remember. Those idiots at speed dating must have given out my number by mistake.

“Anyhow,” he said, “I was wondering if you’d like to get together and go for a sunset sail on my boat.”

I was just about to say no when I flashed on the image of Maxine sitting in her oatmeal recliner with Sparkles on her lap. Did I really want to wind up like her, a sad, lonely lady with only a cat for company? Here was a perfectly nice guy asking me to go sailing. On a sunset cruise. How sweet was that? So what if he’d seemed a tad boring the other night? Maybe he was nervous. Kandi was right. I couldn’t let my disastrous marriage to The Blob turn me off men forever. I had to start giving guys a chance.

“Sounds great,” I said.

We agreed to meet Sunday at 4:00 at the marina, and I hung up, feeling quite proud of myself. In addition to being more civilized, I had to start opening myself up to new adventures. And maybe lose ten pounds while I was at it. But I’d worry about those ten pounds later. Right now, I had a roast chicken to demolish.

I was just heading back to the kitchen when the phone rang again.

Isn’t that always the way it is? When you’re in the middle of a writing assignment and you’re totally blocked and you’d give a million dollars to be interrupted by a call, the phone refuses to ring. But just have a roast chicken on your kitchen counter, and you’re more popular than a blue-eyed blonde in a sports bar.

“Yes,” I barked. “Who is it?”

“Don’t bite my head off. It’s me. Kandi.”

“Kandi, the strangest thing just happened. One of the speed dating guys called and asked me out. I guess they must have given out my number by mistake.”

There was silence on the line.

“Kandi? Are you still there?”

“Yeah, I’m here. Actually, the people at speed dating didn’t give out your phone number. I did.”

“What?”

“When you went to the ladies’ room, I changed all your no’s to yeses.”

“Why would you do that? You said all the guys were losers.”

“I did not say they were losers. I said they were goofballs.”

“Losers. Goofballs. Whatever. Why did you give them my number?”

“I figured in your case, a goofball was better than nothing.”

“What do you mean,
in my case
?”

“I just wanted you to get out of the house, that’s all. You spend way too much time with Prozac.”

“I do not,” I said, plucking cat hairs from my bra.

“Besides,” Kandi said, “even though they all
seemed
like goofballs, that doesn’t mean they really
are
goofballs. It was only three minutes per guy, for heaven’s sake. We didn’t really get a chance to know them.”

I had to admit, she had a point. But I was still pretty annoyed. For all she knew, one of those guys could be a goofball mass murderer. And I was just about to give her a serious scolding when I heard my call waiting beep.

“Look, I’ve got another call. I’ll yell at you later, okay?”

I switched to the other call. It was Becky.

“Oh, Jaine. I’ve got bad news. The police have a witness who saw my car parked outside Passions the night of the murder.”

“But that’s impossible. You weren’t there.”

“Actually,” she said, somewhat sheepishly, “I was there. I went back to get my dress designs. I’d given some of them to Grace. I was afraid Frenchie might not give them back to me, so I went back around seven o’clock. The store was closed by then, and I figured Frenchie would be gone.

“Now some guy says he saw my car in the parking lot. Only he swears it was there later that night, about ten-thirty. And the cops say Frenchie was murdered some time between nine and eleven.”

“How can the police be so sure that it was your car in the parking lot? Did the witness write down the license plate number?”

“My car’s pretty easy to identify. It’s an orange Beetle. I got it to match my hair. The license plate says ‘Becky’s Bug’.”

Oh, great. She might as well have left a business card.

“Who is this witness, anyway?” I asked.

“All I know is that the cops said he lives above the store next door to Passions. Oh, Jaine. What are we going to do?”

Her voice was screechy with panic.

“Do you have anything you can take to relax? A valium, maybe?”

“I’ve got some Sleepy Time Herbal Tea.”

Sleepy Time Herbal Tea? That was the strongest sedative she had, in a town where people pop mind-altering drugs like M&Ms?

“Okay, try that,” I said. “I’ll check in with you tomorrow.”

I assured Becky that everything was going to be okay and got off the phone. But I was lying. I sincerely doubted everything was going to be okay. Not with an eyewitness who placed Becky’s car at Passions at the time of the murder. Surely, the guy got the time wrong. First thing tomorrow, I’d track him down and have a talk with him.

In the meantime, though, I had a chicken to eat.

Taking no chances, I took the phone off the hook and made a beeline for my roast chicken. I couldn’t wait to dig in.

But Prozac, the little monster, had beaten me to it. There she was on the counter, her pink nose buried in the white meat.

“Prozac!” I wailed. “How could you?”

It was easy,
she seemed to say, licking her lips.
In case you’ve forgotten, I’m very good at jumping up on counters.

I grabbed the bird and surveyed the damage. It’s amazing how much chicken a ten-pound cat can eat. For a minute I considered eating what was left. But as hungry as I was, I couldn’t bring myself to eat a chicken covered with cat spit.

I wrapped the remains and put them in the refrigerator. They’d be leftovers for Prozac, although Lord knows she didn’t deserve them.

Then I fixed myself a bowl of Cheerios, which I ate standing over the kitchen sink.

So much for the civilized life.

YOU’VE GOT MAIL

To: Jausten

From: Shoptillyoudrop

Subject: Your Father Is Impossible!

Well, rehearsals have started and all I can say is: Your father is impossible! I swear, he’s driving everyone crazy. He has one measly line:
Very good, sir.
But he refuses to say it. Instead, he keeps making up his own dialogue. He says, “Anything you say, sir.” “Your wish is my command, sir.” “Indubitably, sir.” Anything but “Very good, sir.”

And every gesture he does with a flourish. He practically does a backflip when he opens the door. In one scene he’s supposed to light Alistair’s cigarette. He makes such a production over it, waving the lighter like it’s a baton. By the time he finally lights the darn cigarette, Alistair could have already smoked it.

The worst part is when Alistair and I have our love scene. We don’t really kiss, of course. We just fake it. But every time Alistair comes near me, your father starts coughing and shooting Alistair dirty looks. Oh, honey, it’s just so embarrassing. Daddy is convinced Alistair has a crush on me. All because he sent me those roses. As it turns out, Alistair sent flowers to
all
the ladies in the play. But still, your daddy is convinced that Alistair has “the hots” for me. Which is totally absurd. Our relationship is strictly professional!

Your stressed out,

Mom

To: Jausten

From: DaddyO

Subject: A Wolf in Wolf’s Clothing

Can you believe the gall of The Germ sending your mother a dozen roses? True, he sent flowers to the other women in the cast, but he sent them
carnations
! What does that tell you, huh? The man is a wolf in wolf’s clothing.

And you wouldn’t believe the fuss your mother is making over that damn bouquet. You’d think she never got any flowers before. Didn’t I just give her a dozen gorgeous roses last Mother’s Day?

To: DaddyO

From: Jausten

Actually, Daddy, I think you gave her a dustbuster.

To: Jausten

From: DaddyO

Subject: It’s the Thought That Counts

Really? I could’ve sworn I sent her roses. Oh, well. It’s the thought that counts. And besides, when I
do
give your mother roses, I give her good ones. Not the puny little buds The Germ sent. I bet they don’t last a day.

To: Jausten

From: Shoptillyoudrop

P.S. Daddy did something to those roses, I’m sure of it. They’re wilting already. He swears he went nowhere near them, but I think I smell gin in the vase.

Chapter 15

T
he store next to Passions was a hair salon called Extreme Hair. And they weren’t kidding. The window was filled with pictures of gaunt young models with what looked like antelope horns on their heads. I don’t care what the folks at Extreme Hair say, it’s not a good idea to walk around with antelope horns on your head. Especially during hunting season.

But I wasn’t there to critique haircuts. I was there to pay a call on the witness who’d seen Becky’s car on the night of the murder. Luckily there was only one apartment above the salon. The name on the mailbox was R.D. Butler.

I headed up a narrow flight of steps and rang the bell to R.D.’s apartment. A skinny young guy opened the door. His greasy blond hair was braided in dreadlocks that stuck out from his head like spikes. An Extreme Hair customer, no doubt. He wore nothing but pajama bottoms, exposing a painfully thin chest studded with nipple rings.

I wondered if R.D. stood for Really Dirty.

“Whaddaya want?” he said, peering out at me with bloodshot eyes.

“I hope I didn’t wake you,” I said.

“You sure did,” he snapped.

“Sorry about that. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions about the murder next door.”

“I already told the police everything I know. What are you—some kind of reporter?” He squinted at me appraisingly. “You
are
a reporter, aren’t you? From the
L.A. Times,
I’ll bet.”

I was just about to assure him that no, I wasn’t a pesky reporter, when he said: “I’ll talk to you on one condition. You make sure you mention the name of my band in the paper.”

“Absolutely,” I nodded. “No problem. I’ll be sure to mention your band’s name.”

“Okay,” he said, scratching his scalp between the dreadlocks. “We got a deal. Come on in.”

It’s a good thing I wasn’t from the Board of Health, or his apartment would have been condemned on the spot. What a pigsty. The place was practically buried in beer cans, fast food wrappers, and petrified pizza crusts.

I plucked what looked like a decomposing egg roll from a chair and sat down, making a mental note to have my jeans fumigated.

“My sources tell me that you’re a witness in the Giselle Ambrose murder case,” I said, doing my best to sound like a reporter.

“That’s right,” R.D. said, scratching his underarms.

“Can you tell me what you witnessed?”

“Dead Bats.”

“Dead bats?”

“That’s the name of my band. Aren’t you going to write that down?”

“No need,” I said, tapping my forehead. “Photographic memory.”

“Really? That’s great. I have trouble remembering my phone number.”

“You should try laying off cocaine. I hear that helps.”

Of course, I didn’t really say that. What I said was: “So what did you see the night of the murder?”

“Like I told the cops, at 10:35, I saw an orange VW Beetle out in the parking lot.”

“You sure of the time?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. I was sleeping off a hangover and got up to pee. I happened to look out the window and saw the Beetle. Then I checked the clock over there.”

He pointed to a big round neon clock hanging over the sofa, the kind you see in diners. I wondered if he’d stolen it.

“I remember it was 10:35,” he said. “Exactly.”

This from a guy who had trouble remembering his phone number.

“Were there any other cars there? Like maybe a BMW?”

“I didn’t see a BMW.”

My heart leapt. If he didn’t see a Beemer, then Frenchie couldn’t have been there, and Becky couldn’t have murdered her.

“But that doesn’t mean it wasn’t there,” he added.

“What do you mean?”

“Come here by the window, and I’ll show you.”

I tiptoed through the trash and looked down at Passions’ parking lot.

“You have to be standing right here at the window to see the cars parked directly below, under those jacaranda trees,” R.D. said. “But if you’re standing in the middle of the room, like I was that night, you can’t see these cars. All I could see were the cars parked at the far side of the lot. So another car could’ve been here.”

I plopped back down in the egg-roll chair, disappointed, and watched as R.D. began rummaging through some papers on his coffee table.

“Here it is,” he said, handing me a piece of paper. “Our schedule.”

“What schedule?”

“For the band. Our gigs.”

I glanced down at the paper he handed me.

“This is a pizza take-out menu.”

“Sorry, I don’t see so hot without my contacts.”

“You wear contact lenses?”

“Yeah.”

“Were you wearing them the other night when you saw the orange Beetle?”

“No. But I know I saw that car.”

“I’m sure you did.”

But here’s the thing: Without his contacts, he could have easily gotten the time wrong. He swore he saw the car at 10:35. But what if—groggy with sleep and without his contacts—he’d seen the hands on the clock reversed? What if, instead of 10:35, it was five of seven?

“Here, I found the schedule.” He handed me another piece of paper, this time a menu from The Falafel Palace.

“Great,” I said, heading for the door.

“You won’t forget to mention us?”

“Nope. The Dead Rats are going to be page-one news.”

“Dead Bats.”

“Right. Dead Bats.” R.D.’s eyes narrowed to suspicious slits.

“Wait a minute. I thought you said you had a photographic memory.”

“Guess it went out of focus for a minute. Well, gotta run. Important story breaking at City Hall.”

Before he could reply, I left him scratching his armpits and scooted out the door.